


Save Tonight

by Davechicken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Save tonight and fight the break of dawn<br/>Come tomorrow - tomorrow I'll be gone<br/>Save tonight and fight the break of dawn<br/>Come tomorrow - tomorrow I'll be gone</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shesgottheknife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shesgottheknife/gifts).



> Thanks to ElDiablito_SF for editing, which I then like a bitch still didn't fix the issues with this, but it was post-or-die and you can hate all my errors ;)

I don't need a bloody clock. Not that it would work, of course, because time in Hell runs differently to time topside. Convenient, when you want to fit more into a day. Less so, when you realise you have been thinking about something for weeks compared to someone else's hours.

I've been thinking about this for longer than weeks. Judging by the number of visits... well let's not go into actual figures, because then I come across as crazily obsessive instead of meticulously organised. It's been a while, let's say, and I can count the rise and fall of the sun by the rise and fall of the bedsprings. 

He only comes when it's dark up above. Took me a while to figure it out: I'm not proud to admit it. He comes when the sun sets - long after - when the brothers he fusses over so obsessively are likely asleep or - at the very least - out of harm's way. He comes and - hah - comes.

No, I won't cry over him, it would be crocodile tears at best. I do not like salt at the best of times - it tingles, you know? - but more so than that, he does not deserve the satisfaction of making me feel.

The angel arrives in a whir of invisible feathers, and I can tell by his expression what he needs each time. He never has the balls to ask, he just... assumes. Assumes that the King of Hell is prepared to be his little personal chew toy, or sex toy... whatever. He thinks just because he's an Angel of the Lord that he can appear in a cloud of messy hair and messy tie and messy wants and get what his twisted little heart desires. 

...he can.

Lying is a sin, and although I sin a-plenty, I've never been partial to the silver-plated tongue variety. There are plenty of other things more fun. I won't lie about this... but I won't talk about it either. Why? Because he forbids me to. He forbids any discussion, any conversation, any dialogue. The minute a word reaches the back of my throat it is stolen away, and instead I am rendered a mute witness, and half-willing participant all in one.

I can see he hates himself for it, as he twirls my chair to face him. I can see the disgust on his lips, but he can't work out which distastes him more: me, for wanting him, or him, for wanting me back. Whichever it is, it's not enough to stop him from grabbing my tie and holding me in place as he kisses me. Today is one of _those_ days, then. I let him kiss me, and I open my mouth on a growl to let his tongue push inside, lifting a hand to tangle through his too-pretty hair. He likes it when I do that, but he growls against my lips all the same. He likes it when I push a hand underneath his coat and glide it over his waist to pull him in closer, but he bites at my mouth and he pulls the tie so tight it chokes off air.

Castiel kisses like the angel he is. There is nothing delicate and dainty about his attentions (I cannot call it love, I cannot even call it affection); he bites and pushes and plunders and takes like the brave little soldier he is. He savages my mouth and he pulls me out of the chair and to my feet. I go willingly - almost always - and before I know it, I am slammed into a wall so he can better wage war across the battlefield of our tongues. I pull at his shirt, untucking it from the waistband of his pants. There are easier ways to undress, but there are easier ways to do lots of things. It would be easier if we didn't do this at all, for instance. It would be easier if we were Angel and Demon, if we were enemies and not... this. Not my fingers touching his skittery side, and not his knee between my legs, giving me something to grind against like a desperate, needy little bitch.

It would be easier if he would just snap the words from my lungs, instead of keeping them bottled up with glances and kisses and (when I am particularly noisy) fingers shoved into my gullet. Easier if he kept me permanently in place on my knees with my mouth full of Heaven, or... _anything_ but expect me to be silent. 

What, precisely, does he fear? What could my words do? Cast a spell on him? Name him - name _this_? Ask... _why_?

Why does he bite at my jaw and lick over the front of my throat? Why does he rip my clothes from me like some savage beast hungry for my flesh? Why does he lower his head and _bite_ at my nipples like they're quarry, as his hand shoves past my belt and into my boxers and strokes me, hard?

Why? Why, Cas, why?

I don't hiss that word out, because I know he will stiffen in all the wrong ways if I try to break the unspoken rules of engagement, and instead I curl my fingers around his neck and hold his face in place for more biting, sucking, licking... god. All of it. His mouth... who taught him all those tricks? Was it me? I'm never sure, because he goes at it with such gusto that I sometimes think he must either rely on the vessel's sense-memories, or he knows more than he lets on. Baby in a Trenchcoat indeed. Vicious, conniving, backstabbing sex-kitten more like.

So my question goes unasked and unanswered. At least, in any tongue known to humanity. Instead his mouth leaves a trail of pink marks that will fade in next to no time, and leave behind only the tingling knowledge that they had been. Instead I let my head fall back as I buck into his clever, long, wicked fingers and the King of Hell is half-dressed and panting against the wall of his own office as the Angel of Thursday jacks him off.

That's your answer.

That's why we can't talk.

I lift a leg, I curl it around behind his ankle, and I hold on for dear life as he jerks me off in my pants. The bastard _knows_ what he's doing, knows he's going to leave a damp patch in the finely tailored fabric, and that no amount of dry-cleaning will wipe the traces from the inseam, from the zipper. I whimper - a noise very unbecoming - and that's too much, because he's off me in an instant, and I'm bereft and hard and wanting and glaring up at him. My shirt and jacket open, my tie almost a belt it's so wide, and my pants crumpled and uncomfortable. And what of him? Just a corner of his shirt untucked.

Unfair. Unequal. That's everything about this relationship (if you can call it that) in a nutshell.

I open my mouth to say something and that's all the impetus he needs. I'm over my desk and the angel has my hand twisted up and between my shoulder blades in an instant. It hurts. Oh, it hurts. It hurts my wrist, and it hurts my shoulder and I laugh brokenly at the pain. Words, words, words.

What could I say to you that is so terrifying? That is so utterly wrong that you do this to me? Might I ask you why you insist on dragging my clothing down, on baring me to the elements and biting down on my ass even as you shove a finger - no, _two_ \- inside? Thank Heaven for angel-magic, or else that would smart. Well, the bite still does. I hiss and bite down on my own fist as you fuck me open in preparation. I knew it was going to be one of those days the moment I laid my eyes on you.

Maybe I might ask for an explanation. Or - maybe - I might say... no.

No? Hah. I could withdraw my consent, but we both know I won't. We both know my body - suit - whatever - loves this. We both know I'm addicted to the feel of his fingers inside me, stroking me into readiness like an engine being flooded with fuel before the key turns and thrums me into life. I arch, I push, I beg with my body and he gives time and time again.

My pants are around my ankles, and I'm the most undignified King of Hell you ever met. I'm scratching at the desk, hissing 'fucks' into my own hand, into my own flesh, and apparently that's okay for the moment, because his hands are on my ass, holding me open, pulling me apart and then he's pushing into me. Fuck. FUCK. Fuck, but he feels good. Feels right. This is so very, very wrong. I whine and he slides into me slow and heady, like he's getting a feel for me all over again.

Why? Why, Castiel? Don't you know me inside out? Don't you know every last inch of my miserable hide? Don't you know my toes as they curl, my calves as they tense, my buttocks as they clench? Haven't you owned every last bit of me a hundred times over? Don't you know how I long for the feel of you inside of me? For the way you push in and down, and your electric-blue Grace rakes through my blood-red smoke? 

Harder, harder, faster, deeper... all the words I want to say, all the things I need to _beg_ , but because he demands it, I am mute. Me. Garrulous old me, struck dumb by an angel. Oh, irony is never lost on me. I breathe, I breathe, and I feel. I feel the slap of his balls against my thighs, I feel the fingers on my hips, I feel the stab of his soldier's bayonet spearing me and gutting me. I remember, suddenly, that he could hold tighter and the blue of Heaven inside him could easily rip me into a thousand pieces. He could decide at any moment that he has had enough of me, and he could destroy me. He could do it without his bloody dick in my arse, but somehow... somehow it would be more undignified if he decided to smite me like this. I'd never live it down.

Hah.

He spends in me, and that familiar terror hits _don't leave, don't leave me like this_ , but the angel is, in part, forgiving. He keeps pressed against me until the last little pulse from his vessel fills me, and then he pulls me up enough to beat over my dick for me. Good. If he didn't, I'd just do it myself. Much rather have Castiel do it, though. Much rather have someone else take care of me. Scratch the itch he put there. I grunt and buck and thrash and then I too come.

And then there is no reason to stay. He has taken what he came for. He came for release, and no more. Of course, it's not always over so fast. Sometimes one time isn't even enough, and we go at it like rampant, sex-crazed bunnies in a blur of need and hands and tongues for what feels like days at a time... he is panting above me, now. His hands soften, and I... damn it. I want to put my hand over his. I want to hold it in place and tell him it's okay. I want to hold him against me. I want to wrap around him and bathe in the pleasant, warm buzz that should follow. I want to turn in his arms and kiss him and hold him, and have him hold me. I want...

I want never gets.

He pulls out from me, and goes about the steady business of withdrawing. I wait, peevishly, as he rights himself, wipes the demon from his vessel as though I'm something vile and disgusting. Way to make me feel like a whore, Cas. Except you don't even pay, do you? Just bend me over and take what you want, and make me grateful that you let me find some pleasure in the act, too.

This is beyond fucked up, and _I'm_ the one saying it.

I push up. I turn. For once - by accident - I meet his eye. I don't expect to see there what I do; I don't expect to see regret and sadness. Repulsion, yes, but not... this.

I reach out a hand and touch my finger to the cuff of his sleeve. A small act, and he winces but does not pull away. I can tell by the way his head lifts but his eyes do not that he can sense the rising of the sun (he must have come late, then, late in the night) and it is always then that he leaves me. Explains the frantic rush. He must have been busy all night, and stole away at the very last moment to have his way with me. In a way... touching. That he would need me so badly that even the first fingers of Rosy-coloured Dawn couldn't keep him away.

But we are fighting the clock, I see, fighting the start of the day. I am a creature of his night-time, and never his day. He visits me when the sun goes down, and he leaves me when it rises. 

I let my hand fall from his sleeve, and he looks - for a moment - grateful. Then the mask is back in place and the lie is resurrected anew. Angel and Demon, not lover and beloved.

I know why he does not let me speak.

He knows I would only ask him to stay.


End file.
